A Time to Mourn
by apiratesmile
Summary: Could they see how angry she was? Did they see the fury in her tear-filled eyes? The wife of the Second mourns the death of her husband. Oneshot.


All she could feel was a blinding anger. A heart-wrenching fury that made her legs weak and her hands shake. The elders warned her to be calm and composed; to lead the village in dignified mourning. They expected her to be like Mito. To stand in graceful silence as they carried her husband to his grave. But she had very little in common with the noble-blooded kunoichi. There was no nobility in her blood and she was not born a ninja. She did not see death as a constant companion like many in the village did. And she would not pretend to be numb to it now.

Masami remembered his students filing through the gates, their eyes lowered to the ground and their shoulders hunched as if they aged fifty years. She knew before they even lifted their heads. She felt the numbness spread from her chest to her legs, forcing her to her knees.

"I'm sorry," Sarutobi whispered, his voice cracked with pain. He sounded a thousand miles away to her. His students gathered around her but all she could see was the empty open gate and the road, that should have led her husband home, stood barren. She did not hear the council members come to stand beside her, until one of them spoke. "He did his duty as hokage."

She had screamed then.

She felt like screaming now. The village will expect their dead leader's wife to be the personification of dignity. She did not have much faith that she would meet their expectation. She did not feel like mourning. She felt like kicking and screaming. How dare he sacrifice himself so thoughtlessly! How dare he leave her and their son alone! How dare he die!

She sat seething in the kitchen, staring daggers at her hands, which had gone white from being held too tight.

"Kaa-san?"

Her back stiffened instantly at the sound of her son's voice. She turned in her seat to see him staring tiredly at her from the doorframe.

"Are you alright?" he asked, moving to take the seat next to her.

"Are you?" She asked, curious to see if her son was just as stoic about death as his father had been.

"I miss him," he admitted, staring down at the empty table.

She flexed her fingers in the hope blood would start running through them again. "I think I miss him too."

They sat for a few moments in terrible silence, neither willing to admit they were waiting for Tobirama to suddenly appear in his usual silence and take his place at the head of the table.

"It should be raining today," Sakumo said finally. She looked tiredly out the window at the clear, lazy summer sky.

"That would be a little too dramatic for your father."

"Aunt Mito said it rained for a week after Uncle Hashirama died."

Gods what a terrible day that had been. She had stood before the gates that day with Mito standing as perfect as a statue beside her. Masami remembered wondering how the woman could keep so still that it appeared as if she wasn't even breathing.

"They're fine," she had said without meaning to.

Mito blinked slowly. "It feels different this time."

Two defeated figures appeared on the road. One with his back hunched and the other dragging his feet. They were too far away to identify but surely it could not be the two Senju brothers. Hashirama would never move so slow and Tobirama would never bow his head. But the pained gasp that escaped Mito's lips told her otherwise.

In a breath, Mito was off running to their aide. Masami followed but there was no way for her to keep up with the kunoichi's pace. She reached the group out of breath but her breathing stopped at the sight that stood before her in the middle of the road. Mito cradled her husband's head in her lap, dripping large tears on his still face. Tobirama kneeled at his side with a face like stone.

Her legs gave out of their volition and she fell to her knees, thanking the gods when she hit the ground—he was safe.

He stared at her for a moment, eyes unblinking. She stared back uncertainly, aching to hold him but his eyes kept her back. She had never seen them so blank before. They were the eyes of someone utterly and completely lost.

"I couldn't get there fast enough," he said finally, each word too controlled even for him. She wanted to grab the guilt he was holding so tight to and throw it into a blazing fire but she knew he would never just let it go. She could picture the one thought circling his usually rational mind—one of the fastest men alive but still too slow to save his brother.

She held him close that night and gave a selfish prayer of thanks that he had been the one to return home.

"Are you ready to go?" She asked.

Sakumo nodded. She looked him up and down, appraising him with the sharp eyes of a mother. At a quick glance the boy could have been a miniature replica of the Second. The boy had inherited his father's hair, his features, the solid build, the confident stance but she saw the difference. The dark eyes were hers, like they had been her father's. She was glad she had contributed something besides carrying him for nine months.

Masami sat in the silent room of the hospital, counting his breaths and praying another would follow. She hated being indoor. She hated hospitals. She hated being still. But she had not moved an inch in that room for almost a week.

He had told her it was a diplomatic mission. There was nothing to worry about. She had never felt so useless before. She was not a ninja—she couldn't protect him. She wasn't even a healer! She could not fathom why Tobirama kept her around when her strongest attribute was getting into trouble.

"You have to wake up," she pleaded, throwing her face into her hands. "I can't do this without you."

"Don't be stupid," a familiar voice ordered with strained authority. Her head jerked with a painful snap to stare in awe at the man who had been knocking on Death's door.

"Thank God," she said, her shoulders slumping with the fatigue she had been ignoring. The sheets rustled as he tried to sit up but he fell back into the pillows with a hiss and a curse.

"You shouldn't be moving," she chided. "The doctors thought you were as good as dead."

He looked up sidelong from staring distastefully at the bandages on his hands. "Can't do what?" he asked.

"What?" She asked, lost.

"You said you can't do _this_ without me," he said patiently. "I have a hard time imagining anything you can't do."

Half-dead and heavily sedated and she still couldn't keep a simple, little secret from him.

"There are a lot of things I can't do without you," she evaded at the cost of her pride.

He snorted but quickly closed his eyes as a wave of pain rushed through him. She watched his pained face and the familiar feeling of helplessness resurfaced.

She began talking just to distract him, but her tongue was working faster then her head. "I couldn't raise a child without you and I couldn't…"

Tobirama's eyes snapped open. She couldn't remember ever seeing them so wide before. He turned to look at her. She could feel him assessing her every angle, but she doubted he could see the small bump through her loose shirt. Perhaps it was her wide smile that gave it away.

"You're pregnant," he grinned.

He had cheated death that day and she had rewarded him with a son. A son who, at the age of six, had the wisdom and eyes of an old man. This war had taken her husband from her and it was stealthily trying to steal her son away as well.

Masami held her son's hand tight as they walked to the funeral. Sensing his mother's emotions, he did not protest as he usually would.

The entire village gathered that day, stretched out like a great, black sea. Sarutobi stood at the front of the crowd wearing the ceremonial hokage garb that Tobirama had always hated. She took her place beside him, giving a respectful nod before forcing her attention to the flower-adorned memorial. She rested her hands on Sakumo's shoulders, feeling his small body shake with a contained grief. She looked down to see Sarutobi's hands shaking and small tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Turning to look behind, she saw countless tear-stained faces.

She turned her head back to the memorial. Her eyes dry and her hands surprisingly steady. She was not numb or in shock—she was simply no longer angry. Behind her stood a village who recognized his sacrifice. A sea of people who knew he gave everything to protect them. She could not be angry with the man who died to protect his village. Died to protect her and their son.

Masami raised her head with the poise of nobility and stood proud with the stance of a warrior. She saw no honor in death and no heroism in dying but the man had paid the ultimate price to protect those most precious to him and it had never been in his nature to do anything less.

She stepped out from the crowd and stood tall before the memorial, her husband's picture watching her with its solemn expression. The tears finally came running down her cheeks, as tender memories filmed through her mind and the realization there would be no more memories for them to make weighed heavy in her heart. She would never run into his arms after he returned from a mission, never feel his touch or see devotion and adoration in his eyes. He would never lift Sakumo onto his shoulders again or tuck him in at night. She would never know what it would feel like to grow old with him.

But she would have their son and the village and that was because of him.

Masami felt the eyes of the crowd watching. Waiting for her to do something. So she did something she would never do for anyone else—she bowed.

"Arigatou, my love."


End file.
